song_tra_bong | April Fool's

Entry tags:

julian,
smut

April Fool's

After sending a prayer of thanks to whoever installed the lift, Mary Anne shuffles down the hall towards her room. The wig has finally succumbed to the laws of physics and is tilting precariously. She's holding it on with one hand, if only because she doesn't want to accidently trip over it.

Finally, she slumps in relief against the doorframe, knocking twice. "Give a girl a hand?"

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Which is precisely why he doesn't move hie head, he likes the feeling of her lips brushing against him even if he doesn't know all the words.

The wrists are held tighter to stop them slipping free, and he speeds up a little, staring down into her eyes with an intense blue gaze.

The pace changes and her breathing hitches; she hooks an ankle around his leg, pulling him closer.

Her wrists are held firm, though the fingers still clench spasmotically. It's not tight enough to hurt; she finds herself hoping for bruises all the same.

She stares back until her eyes drift out of focus and blue is all she can see. Another thrust makes her cry out and she arches to press a kiss to the corner of his jaw.

(Người tình.)

He won't bruise intentionally tonight, but the grip is firm and if it happens on it's own he's not going to feel bad about it. There's a smile as her leg wraps around his amd he rocks harder, wanting to make her cry out more as his own breath comes faster.

She won't feel bad either; hell, with Random on baby-raising leave, she won't feel bad about showing them off.

There's a string of softer noises against his throat, followed by a renewed series of words in two languages. Graudually, her cries become longer and higher; her hands writhe in his grip as she strives to get closer to him still.

He doesn't let go of her, but pushes into her harder, faster, with slightly more desperation. Because he loves trapping her underneath him, doing this to her, hearing her cry out for him. And the closeness of her is intoxicating, something that's still new and exciting and he's afraid that it feels too good to tire of.

She has an addiction to violence and a compulsion to touch. It's why she kills the way she does. It's also why she loves this.

A gasp wrings from her throat, tempered with a harsher cry. She muffles her voice with a bite to his shoulder. Jungle discipline dies hard.

He hisses his breath out at the bite, enjoying the mixture of pain and heated pleasure as it shoots through his body, adding to the building tension in his muscles. There's a kiss then, hand tangling in her hair, breath coming faster now.

She kisses him back, another cry building in the back of her throat, high and wavering.

"Please, please, please--" The words slur against his mouth.

She's so damn close

He stares down into her eyes, holding back moans, watching her unravel. Then his head drops and he snaps his hips faster, biting into her neck as he does and adding pressure to her pinned wrists to stop her moving as much as possible.

It's the teeth that does it.

She's covered and she can't move and he's so close, teeth in her throat (shoulder)

Her back curves in a near perfect arc, head tipped back to expose more of her throat to him. The arching tugs at her wrists and it'll bruise now for sure, yes.

She shudders against him, mouth open but perfectly silent as she comes.

His smile into her neck is slow, tinged with lust and desire, and he releases her hands when she's done. And then moves again, close himself but not quite there yet, lifting his chest off her so he can move easier and watch her at the same time.

She stretches, flexing each wrist and slowly working blood back into her fingertips. She rides out the aftershocks, staring up at him through half-lidded eyes. She cranes her neck to kiss him, one hand slipping down to dig nails into his hip.

It only takes another minute or so, as he hisses with the nails in his hip, biting gently at her full lower lip as muscles tense. He's quiet as he lets go, never the most vocal of men, but there's a small sound of satisfaction all the same, his eyes never leaving hers.

The pressure of the nails eases until it's not there at all, just a fingertip tracing idle circles.

She kisses him again, slow and lingering-- because he's there, because she can--her other hand winding a lock of hair around her palm.

Yes, he's there and yes, she can - he kisses her back until he needs to breathe again, his heart still hammering in his chest as he rolls to the side and stares up at the ceiling.

'I think I shouldn't drink around you any more. Or maybe I should drink more often. I can't decide.'

She shifts onto her side, pillowing her head on one arm.

"I'd say split the difference, but 'm not sure you can." There's no bite in the words, just lazy speculation.

'No, it's a bit hard to.'

Even if she was making a bitchy comment, he's too relaxed from alcohol and sex to worry about it. And he's more relaxed in her company now that he'd ever have thought possible a month or two ago.

He reaches out and strokes a bit of hair off her face, then lights a cigarette.

'You alright?'

She smiles. "Yeah. 'M doing just fine."

One hand skirts the bite to her neck. It's not much to look at now, but the skin is vaguely tender and she anticipates a bruise.

"You?"

He blinks, then smiles as well.

'Of course.'

It's not right exactly. But it's not bad either. Far more good than bad.

"Good to hear." She opens her mouth to add something else, but yawns instead, blushing as she tries to stop.
We're never going to be alright, but...
"'M sorry. It's not the company."

He grins and continues to smoke.

'Thats alright. It must have been tiring, dragging that dress around. Sleep if you like, there's no need to stay up on my account.'

She stretches again, the sort of long full body stretch that makes your toes curl and your spine crack.

"So glad to be rid of that thing..."

She curls back up, eyelids falling to half-mast. She isn't so tired, not really; more than that, she's afraid he'll leave as soon as she closes her eyes.

"What'd you do with yours, anyway?"

There's a nod to the corner, where the dress is in a heap.

'I hope you don't mind if I steal your trousers, I refuse to walk out of here wearing that thing. I'll return them to you, obviously.'

He'll leave at some point. Not just yet.

She laughs, entertained by the mental image of Julian putting on the dress willingly.

"Keep 'em; they don't fit me worth a damn."

She eyes the dress-puddle. "Wonder if that'd fit me..."

An eyebrow goes up, in a manner that would be conceived as 'intruiged' if he weren't...y'know, Julian.

'...you could try it on?'

April Fool's

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